Sunday 8 August 2010
Moving Day
- put to the back of your mind the fears and ambitions of your life and replace them with fears of leaving behind vital materials essential to the existence you have created for yourself and the ambitions of not compromising your morals in the search for your favourite pair of pants. As moving day turns into moving night the said mover metamorphasizes from their role of liminal life always on the edge of status changes on facebook into the constant and immovable force that is, "not moving anymore, yeah it was ok". - moving day
Monday 8 March 2010
Armchair
Jerald was a ponderer. that is not to say that he is no longer a ponderer, the use of the word was is and will be used to distinguish a separation between Jerald and these words. he is and will continue to be a ponderer, he always was, or so he thought. he sat in the armchair in the garden that if descended to a court of law, was not his, but in his moral stance, was. that was until he pondered to such a degree as to confirm to himself that he was and will sit in his garden in his armchair. Jerald liked the idea of his garden descending to a different context and it becoming something other than his garden, this seemed to Jerald, a wholly reasonable assumption.
Jerald was a modest man, or so he thought to himself, his chair did not know this, but as he pondered to himself in his chair, he suspected that the armchair had its own suspicions. this was a fleeting thought however and Jerald never wrote these particular ponderings down as to confirm his ideas.
The armchair had been recently moved, it was moved as to catch the morning sun that had been slowly rising over his brick house these past weeks. Jerald assumed that he enjoyed pondering on his armchair in the light from the sun. therefore he did not think too much about his enjoyment of it, he did ponder however why the chair was moved. this seemingly minute action that had he presumed occurred had stumped him. he pondered over an idea of time with a faltering memory. he remembered that the armchair had convinced him to read a short story written by J.G Ballard. that is not to say a specific story that the armchair had recommended to him, although this thought made Jerald giggle in such a way to challenge his idea of himself being a mutually exclusive ponderer. the cup of tea he was holding in his left, the chairs right arm had jerked by his abrupt laughter and spilled its contents down his black jeans. Jerald then, jarred by this in his eyes, pondered the requirements of the ponderer sitting on his armchair in his garden in the morning sunlight. was laughter appropriate in this mindset he asked himself.
Jerald decided that he was a ponderer after a scary moment and routinely continued his thought that escaped him briefly. to do this he relived the thoughts preceding his departure point from the act of giggling and whilst reliving; (if this existence was indeed really living he thought) these thoughts he dismantled them to a degree he had not thought whilst he was pondering them for their first time. Jerald looked at a bird that had, he presumed been sitting on a garden fork for some time, he imagined the time being in the realm of when he started reliving his thoughts. Jerald said hello to the bird. Jerald then imagined the little bird to have been startled and flown off. the bird then preceeded to fly off, for when Jerald had finished his thought, the moment had passed. this interaction with this decidedly alive being reminded Jerald of his imagined conversation with the armchair. Jerald’s chest contracted and expanded the way human chests do when they are described as laughing, not chests Jerald thought, humans. Jerald smiled as he noticed no warm patch on his leg, no tea was spilt, Jerald looking down into the cup which he was holding in his left, the chairs right arm. just the remains of what can only be described as a cup of tea was left. Jerald did not recall drinking the tea or indeed thinking about drinking the tea. Jerald imagined himself to be revelling in his humanity, he imagined taking out his journal and turning to the back page and striking a line with the pencil that was in this imaginary Jerald’s hand, the line joined many other lines. these lines and their meaning were known only to him, and maybe the armchair in which he sat, Jerald thought.
No, the armchair did not recommend a certain story to be read, but the sight of the chair, be it real or imagined, for Jerald could not remember or possibly distinguish, had triggered another memory, and with memories and all their connections, the judgement was made that a book containing short stories will be read. it is being read, and it was.
Jerald was a modest man, or so he thought to himself, his chair did not know this, but as he pondered to himself in his chair, he suspected that the armchair had its own suspicions. this was a fleeting thought however and Jerald never wrote these particular ponderings down as to confirm his ideas.
The armchair had been recently moved, it was moved as to catch the morning sun that had been slowly rising over his brick house these past weeks. Jerald assumed that he enjoyed pondering on his armchair in the light from the sun. therefore he did not think too much about his enjoyment of it, he did ponder however why the chair was moved. this seemingly minute action that had he presumed occurred had stumped him. he pondered over an idea of time with a faltering memory. he remembered that the armchair had convinced him to read a short story written by J.G Ballard. that is not to say a specific story that the armchair had recommended to him, although this thought made Jerald giggle in such a way to challenge his idea of himself being a mutually exclusive ponderer. the cup of tea he was holding in his left, the chairs right arm had jerked by his abrupt laughter and spilled its contents down his black jeans. Jerald then, jarred by this in his eyes, pondered the requirements of the ponderer sitting on his armchair in his garden in the morning sunlight. was laughter appropriate in this mindset he asked himself.
Jerald decided that he was a ponderer after a scary moment and routinely continued his thought that escaped him briefly. to do this he relived the thoughts preceding his departure point from the act of giggling and whilst reliving; (if this existence was indeed really living he thought) these thoughts he dismantled them to a degree he had not thought whilst he was pondering them for their first time. Jerald looked at a bird that had, he presumed been sitting on a garden fork for some time, he imagined the time being in the realm of when he started reliving his thoughts. Jerald said hello to the bird. Jerald then imagined the little bird to have been startled and flown off. the bird then preceeded to fly off, for when Jerald had finished his thought, the moment had passed. this interaction with this decidedly alive being reminded Jerald of his imagined conversation with the armchair. Jerald’s chest contracted and expanded the way human chests do when they are described as laughing, not chests Jerald thought, humans. Jerald smiled as he noticed no warm patch on his leg, no tea was spilt, Jerald looking down into the cup which he was holding in his left, the chairs right arm. just the remains of what can only be described as a cup of tea was left. Jerald did not recall drinking the tea or indeed thinking about drinking the tea. Jerald imagined himself to be revelling in his humanity, he imagined taking out his journal and turning to the back page and striking a line with the pencil that was in this imaginary Jerald’s hand, the line joined many other lines. these lines and their meaning were known only to him, and maybe the armchair in which he sat, Jerald thought.
No, the armchair did not recommend a certain story to be read, but the sight of the chair, be it real or imagined, for Jerald could not remember or possibly distinguish, had triggered another memory, and with memories and all their connections, the judgement was made that a book containing short stories will be read. it is being read, and it was.
Thursday 21 January 2010
cold sex for bad art
robot sabotages young artists by revealing their overely literal, obvious and boring observations of metaphors using structure, actions and words.
Friday 15 January 2010
linier narrative 1
the impossibility of the linier narrative. does this represent a thought, or a vast network of connecting brain activity from the result of a thought. this is the simulation of a thought, decidedly unironically not about the simulation of thought.
I cant see how anybody has done anything.
I agree with the theorists that I seem to connect with, but the seemingness of it suggests a frailty of these words, even the words are suggesting this. no no im not suggesting this, I am no user of language, it is not my skilled trade. It; (the sickening racist generalisation that all language is the same, not within itself but what it is saying, or more specifically these indefinable present words) is using me, therefore these suggested suggestions are floating narratives with no port to call home, an unrequited indifference.
the amount of unresolved linguistically troubled ideas; (twinned)x sextuplet, with a handful of sensory metaphors and paradoxical intellectually masturbatory adjectives words is truly sickening to this being. if I were a calculator and derived these ideas into numbers could I then be satisfied. . . .
why cant I see how anybody has done anything? well, ill just go for it.
I see the peers I have assumed to be correct in their theories, this may have no actual relation to what they themselves perceive their theories to be about, this is a starter example of said theory and could be said to exemplify it, but if someone were to say this then the whole process become a base refinement of an assumed identity with books and lakes and the smallest remnants of crumbs from the most wonderfully homely and organic biscuit trapped in a jumper, not of wool, because wool is itchy, but almost exactly like wool with a wide stitch that tricks your senses that it may get cold, but startles your subconscious when you become toasty. this may seem farfetched but science may come up with such a romanticised material from within the brains of romanticising memory. or polyester.
so my peers have said all I could possibly say, or so I have said. I am a product of my time as I am sure that they were, an environmental network where the idea of an outside other lies within, and the outside other only really consists of many other brains with the same affliction, did they not think the same things, did it really take this many years to come to our saturation point of creativity and are we doomed to swill in a giant sherry glass of some strange woman who scares us slightly for a reason we cant quite verbalize, or more prominently right now at the start of these words, write ; I originally wrote type here but changed it afterwards because of personal problems.
this is all slightly environmentally and mortally challenged, I am failing to see the longer timescales because of this fragile body, if I am cut will I bleed a post-modern mess. then I will clean the carpet, critiquing death and household identity, psycho will be in my appendix. the only problem I see hear is that how could I possibly be on the cusp of the collapse of creativity from the saturation of our bodies and minds, can this brain go no further. In a mathematical world it is hard to perceive, however the logic in that statement is so horrifically flawed that it was a pointless thing to say, and if im saying things like that then what could I possibly add to the linier narrative of this idea of humanity. bulk maybe. please don’t make me explain why it is horribly flawed, please sit and think, please do as I say, look this is fun, lets go down the slide.
this was an account from a robot posing as a troubled human artist.
that was an account from a human laughing at someone else laughing at the last sentence and how "I" am romanticising the troubled lonely artist who is so inaccessible enigmatic and sporting a woollen jumper . . . . made from polyester
I cant see how anybody has done anything.
I agree with the theorists that I seem to connect with, but the seemingness of it suggests a frailty of these words, even the words are suggesting this. no no im not suggesting this, I am no user of language, it is not my skilled trade. It; (the sickening racist generalisation that all language is the same, not within itself but what it is saying, or more specifically these indefinable present words) is using me, therefore these suggested suggestions are floating narratives with no port to call home, an unrequited indifference.
the amount of unresolved linguistically troubled ideas; (twinned)x sextuplet, with a handful of sensory metaphors and paradoxical intellectually masturbatory adjectives words is truly sickening to this being. if I were a calculator and derived these ideas into numbers could I then be satisfied. . . .
why cant I see how anybody has done anything? well, ill just go for it.
I see the peers I have assumed to be correct in their theories, this may have no actual relation to what they themselves perceive their theories to be about, this is a starter example of said theory and could be said to exemplify it, but if someone were to say this then the whole process become a base refinement of an assumed identity with books and lakes and the smallest remnants of crumbs from the most wonderfully homely and organic biscuit trapped in a jumper, not of wool, because wool is itchy, but almost exactly like wool with a wide stitch that tricks your senses that it may get cold, but startles your subconscious when you become toasty. this may seem farfetched but science may come up with such a romanticised material from within the brains of romanticising memory. or polyester.
so my peers have said all I could possibly say, or so I have said. I am a product of my time as I am sure that they were, an environmental network where the idea of an outside other lies within, and the outside other only really consists of many other brains with the same affliction, did they not think the same things, did it really take this many years to come to our saturation point of creativity and are we doomed to swill in a giant sherry glass of some strange woman who scares us slightly for a reason we cant quite verbalize, or more prominently right now at the start of these words, write ; I originally wrote type here but changed it afterwards because of personal problems.
this is all slightly environmentally and mortally challenged, I am failing to see the longer timescales because of this fragile body, if I am cut will I bleed a post-modern mess. then I will clean the carpet, critiquing death and household identity, psycho will be in my appendix. the only problem I see hear is that how could I possibly be on the cusp of the collapse of creativity from the saturation of our bodies and minds, can this brain go no further. In a mathematical world it is hard to perceive, however the logic in that statement is so horrifically flawed that it was a pointless thing to say, and if im saying things like that then what could I possibly add to the linier narrative of this idea of humanity. bulk maybe. please don’t make me explain why it is horribly flawed, please sit and think, please do as I say, look this is fun, lets go down the slide.
this was an account from a robot posing as a troubled human artist.
that was an account from a human laughing at someone else laughing at the last sentence and how "I" am romanticising the troubled lonely artist who is so inaccessible enigmatic and sporting a woollen jumper . . . . made from polyester
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